


How to Romance Your Flatmate

by freezerjerky



Series: How to Date Your Flatmate [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Smut, romanticness (eww right)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:14:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freezerjerky/pseuds/freezerjerky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock works out a few ways to be romantic for his one-year anniversary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place a few months after The Only Rule That Matters. Not necessary to read the first two stories in the series, but not intended to be read as a standalone. Inspired by the Johnlock Anniversary a few days ago, I wanted to give my special spin on the boys their own celebration.

**One week before**

**First goal: Procure pictures to be assembled in a way that invokes maximum sentimental value. John likes things that hold sentiment for him.**

                Sherlock clicked through the pictures on his laptop, hoping to find something to his satisfaction. Of course, nothing seemed to please him.

                “You are generally photogenic, John,” he said, frowning. “There is not a single flattering photo of you from the past year, at least no pictures with me present.”

                The ridiculous (poorly developed, moderately hetero-normative) website found gathering pictures to be romantic. It also recommended scheduling a photo shoot to create new photographic memories (or some other sentimental phrasing.) Sherlock dismissed that part of the idea immediately, not wanting to have to force intimacy in front of a camera or have a stranger ogle John. (He was surprised to find that the second had a stronger impact on his decision than the first.)

                “I like the one where we both have black left eyes,” John teased.

                They were sitting on the couch, engaged in their between cases evening ritual of “attempting to do work until distracted by sleep, a case, or sex.” Lately the distraction was coming increasingly often by the first. John smiled and slid down closer to Sherlock, attempting to look at the pictures for himself.

                “Christ, we really don’t have many pictures,” John commented. “Half of these are blackmail taken by Greg.”

                “Yes, well, while I do rather like the picture of you covered in mud, it’s really of no use to me at the moment.”

                “We’ll have to take more in the future.”

                The photo shoot plan would have to happen, it seemed. Soon. And alone.

**Next: take pictures with John that display the nature of our relationship. Don’t want anyone else seeing him in even the pantomime of our most emotionally and physically intimate moments. Thus, will improvise and do what we can by ourselves. Pictures of moments we were together are strong enough for this.**

“Would you like to take some photos now?”

                “Where?” John asked with a mixture of confusion and sarcasm in his voice.

                “Your bedroom will do.”

                “Oh-kay.”

                “Head up now if you will, I need to find the camera.”

 

                John waited in his room for five minutes. He knew this because he checked the time on his watch three times, each time letting out a dramatic sigh. Part of him, the very tired hardworking part, just wanted to curl up and fall asleep. The other part, the rather in love red-blooded male thrill seeking part, wanted to wait and see what exactly his partner intended when he asked to take pictures. (It wouldn’t be the oddest thing they’d done in bed, but sometimes Sherlock was so oblivious to the implications of things he suggested.) (Walking around in the flat handcuffed together for 12 hours, for example, did not work out how John wanted it at all.)

                His eyes were closed and he was in the midst of sigh four as he heard the faint _click_ of a digital camera in the doorway.

                “Er-what exactly do you want to take pictures of?”

                “As many inches of your body as you’ll allow me to. You can reciprocate of course.”

                There were a few more light clicks.

                “Give it here.” John held out his hand and Sherlock reluctantly handed over the camera. “I’m an absolutely shite photographer, but I’d like pictures of us- being _us._ ” His voice grew husky. “Sit down here.”

                Sherlock joined John on the bed, and John extended his arm, flipping the camera around to take a picture. He laughed at the result; a manic smile on his face and a deep frown on Sherlock’s.

                “Teenage girls make this seem so easy,” John commented as he made another attempt _._ This one was better, the two with their heads leaning together naturally and soft, small smiles on their faces. “There.” He handed the camera back over to Sherlock.

                “Lay down.”

                John lowered himself slowly until he was prone on his back. Sherlock leaned over him, snapping a few quick photos before John had the time to compose himself artificially. Admittedly, Sherlock had intended this procedure to be less scientific and more about _them_ than just John, but the opportunity was just too good. He could manage a few pictures that were appropriate, but the chance to have a tangible visual catalogue of John-ness was irresistible.

                Despite his heavy breathing, John was laying in almost complete stillness, through Sherlock taking pictures of his socked feet, his hands, his clothed neck, close-up shots of his hair. Hands, partly intimate partly clinical, deftly unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt. A few more photos added to the collection before they continued their trek down the rest of his shirt; shots with his shirt undone, of the heather grey vest underneath, before the shirt was completely stripped off. Sherlock engaged then in a thorough inspection of arms, admiring the muscle tone; subtle but firm, and the masculine structure so often hidden by warm, shapeless clothing.

                The next natural step, of course, was John’s shoulders and neck. Sherlock slipped the vest carefully over his head. As though wanting to tease, he started with the right shoulder, a few snapshots capturing it. He glared at the camera in dissatisfaction when the camera didn’t capture the light on John’s clavicle properly, but he returned to his joyful inspection when he could take in the glorious scar with its jagged edges and the soft, almost fading colours.

                “You should have allowed me to photograph you like this from the day we met,” Sherlock said with a scowl. “I’ll never properly be able to catalogue the scar because I never saw it when it was a new addition.”

                “If you’d have kissed me in the hallway that first night or told me you weren’t married to your work, I probably would have.”

                “I didn’t mean precisely like this,” Sherlock replied. “Though it is far preferable.”

                John was still confused about the whole situation, but rather than worry about it, he went along for the ride. The joyful ride of possessive hands sliding along his ribs, attempting to create various shifts in his body, to make his muscles relax. Then the feeling of adept hands working at his belt buckle, the swift pull of trousers in one deft motion, a few snapshots of his hips in nothing more than his pants before those were gone too, followed by a few very sly clicks of the camera.

                “You’re not taking unfavourable pictures of my cock.”

                “You’ll find that I am. Don’t look at me like that, John Watson. I love your flaccid state just as much as your aroused state. It is far more unguarded and intimate to be exposed to someone without the direct implication of sex.”

                “Far less fun, though.”

                Sherlock shook his head and continued his downward trek, taking pictures of John’s thighs and knees, and removed his socks to take as many angles as imaginable of his feet. The attention to the lower half of his body piqued John’s interest, and slowly his blood ran to his groin. Sherlock observed this, of course, taking discreet pictures of his cock; half hard, then fully erect. If Sherlock was not so busy scientifically exploring every inch of his partner, he would have discovered his own arousal, but in the moment he was too captivated by attempting to capture the pink flush on John’s chest and cheeks and the way his expressions seemed to shift. He determined to set aside a whole day to spend in bed, photographing each little change in John as he went from his regular state, to aroused, to in coitus, to post-coital. It would take at least a whole afternoon to get enough data.

                He was too excited about what he had now, and found his energy propelling himself towards the door. John’s confusion at last resolved itself, leaving him more than a little upset with the other man.

                “I’ll need to carry out a similar procedure another time – with you lying on your front,” Sherlock called out as he was already away from the room.

 

                Sherlock uploaded the photographs at an alarming speed, emptying a completely full memory stick. A whole bunch of pure data on _JohnJohnJohn_. It could take him days; weeks even to glean everything he needed, every detail he couldn’t take in in his daily life.

                But no, he realized. That was wrong. He meant the effort as a gift to John, and instead the other man got the upper-hand. Sherlock suggested the gift he would most want, and John gave it to him, throwing the original intent completely out the window. He returned to John’s room, as soon as this dawned on him, but he realized too late that he had completely lost track of time. There was a tightness in his chest at the sight of John curled up under the duvet, likely still nude. Sherlock stripped quietly and climbed in behind his partner.

                When John woke up, he’d wake up too, and give himself to John as a form of apology. He would find good pictures, maybe the successful one from that evening, and give them to John. Items of sentiment, kept in frames, that was easy enough. He checked through the mental list as he drifted off to sleep. There was still a week. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The attempts at romance the day before their anniversary.

**The day before**

**Show up at their work with presents such as flowers and chocolates. The article, of course, says this. John is too practical to desire flowers in his work environment and is not the partner in the relationship who would end up eating the chocolates. It would likely be considered inconsiderate. A cup of coffee, however, will do nicely.**

                He would have preferred it if John had given up the pretence of trying to work completely. He could just as easily give him a small (romantic because of intimacy?) present in their kitchen or in bed. (The bed implied intimacy on a different level, not necessarily romantic, not a good idea.) John didn’t even have work on the day itself, but the idea still stood, and so Sherlock would try.

                John’s primary reaction to the coffee (purchased in a café across the corner, medium, black, still very warm) was to be cross. This had much to do with the fact that he was with a patient at the time Sherlock burst in with a cup in hand. He excused himself immediately, gesturing for his partner to follow him out into the hallway.

                “I thought we established the rules about you coming to my work for non-emergencies,” John stated, crossing his arms.

                “Always with your rules, John. I thought you would like an afternoon coffee.”

                “Believe it or not, the break room provides me with perfectly adequate beverages and those don’t saunter in in the middle of the afternoon.”

                “I was in the area-” (A poor lie, of course. John’s angry face messed with synapses at times.)

                “Doing what, the shopping?”

                John had started as angry, but by the end of the sentence ended up giggling. A nurse walking by shot a glare in his direction.

                “I know you’re bored and I’m gone all day some days,” John started, “but it’s only for a few hours.”

                “You implied two different lengths of time in that one sentence.”

                “I have a patient, Sherlock; I have a job. A rather infrequent job that I’m always on the verge of losing due to my tendency to fall asleep behind the desk or miss a shift because I’ve been kidnapped. “

                “I am aware of the importance holding a steady job has on your self-worth as a doctor. You’re far too skilled for this particular steady job, however.”

                “I will see you tonight,” John said, choosing to avoid the argument. He leaned up, giving Sherlock a chaste kiss. “Thanks for the coffee.”

**Recreate your first date. Which sounds simple in itself, unless on the first actual date, at a very expensive restaurant, John ate too many shellfish and ended up rather sick both in public and back at the flat. He would be entirely too embarrassed to relive that moment at all.**

                Second dates simply don’t count, so Sherlock had no choice but to attempt to recreate their first romantic encounter. (Not perfectly, however, as it is difficult to find a murderer/dog walker to chase down.)

                He hurried John back out the door as soon as he returned from work, and though John protested all the way to the taxi, he seemed relaxed and quiet at dinner. (Dinner was not a part of the initial romantic encounter, but it would have to do.) He even agreed to a moonlit walk around Regent’s Park, arranged under the pretence of meeting with some of the homeless network. (The only people they passed that night seemed to be university students.) John’s tread was heavy on the stairs when they returned to the flat, however, signalling exhaustion.

                The time to re-enact hit as soon as they made their way through the door to the flat. Sherlock pinned John against the wall, initiating a fevered kiss. (Not quite like the first, their bodies were too pleasantly familiar with each other.) John languidly kissed back, licking his way into Sherlock’s mouth. His hands grabbed Sherlock’s hips, and Sherlock reciprocated by rolling his hips toward John’s groin. John stopped kissing, but Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, moving his attention to John’s neck instead.

                “Not tonight, love,” John gasped out. “I’m tired. I like you too much to give you too exhausted to function sex.”

                “I like that kind of sex; I like all varieties of John sex.”

                “Stick with me for another few years and you’re bound to encounter it.”

                John wriggled out of Sherlock’s grasp (one hand had ended up on his arse, the other clutching the back of his head) and settled on the couch, patting the spot next to him. Sherlock pouted but ended up sitting anyway, placing his arm around John and all but forcing him to lay his head on his shoulder.

                “Can I see the pictures you took of me last week?” John said, placing his hand on Sherlock’s knee.

                “They’re on my laptop, which is in your room currently.”

                “You don’t have to try to do these romantic things.”

                John knew. Of course John knew.

                “That was like our first time, yeah? I wouldn’t do that again even if I wasn’t so tired. Don’t look at me like that,” John hadn’t actually bothered to turn to face his partner. “You were shaking and I was more worried about touching every inch of you than anything else. I like us now.”

                “I was not shaking.”

                “Right, it was probably just a side effect of not eating for days, being high on adrenaline, and physical intimacy for the first time in years- oh wait.”

                “I think it’s to bed with you, John Watson.”

                John rose with a stretch before leaning over to give Sherlock one last kiss. (Not as chaste as the typical good-night kiss, the promise of “tomorrow for sure”.) Sherlock relaxed on the sofa, listening to the noises of John preparing for bed; removing his shoes, brushing his teeth, looking over the flat for any health and safety hazards, and finally shuffling upstairs to his room. A few hours later, Sherlock made his way upstairs likewise, greeted by the sight of a sleeping John with his face lit up by Sherlock’s laptop. It was open to a picture of John’s stomach.

                “John,” Sherlock stated. “Isn’t this rather hypocritical?”

                The formerly sleeping man raised his head, blanket marks pressed into his face.

                “Need your computer?” he mumbled, grasping at the duvet in an attempt to pull it over him.

                “I’m going to bed. You need to take your clothes off before you fall into too deep of a sleep, or else you’ll wake up miserable tomorrow like you always do when you sleep in jeans.”

                Rather than waiting for a reply, Sherlock undressed him. John sat up during these ministrations, but didn’t seem to bother helping. When he was sufficiently stripped to just his pants, they both crawled under the blankets and Sherlock worked out how to have as many points of contact with John as possible without indicating that he wanted sex. (Admittedly, he was rather tired himself.)

                “Your pictures are nice,” John said from underneath his dual wrapping of blankets and Sherlock. “I want pictures of you, every inch of your ridiculous and attractive body.”

                “Even my flaccid cock?”

                “As revenge, it’s only fair.”


	3. Chapter 3

**The day of**

**The article, pedestrian thing that it is suggests either a picnic or a romantic dinner. Both can be easily combined. It recommends a homemade meal. However, given the state of the particular kitchen and the attitude of the prospective chef, takeaway seems like the most feasible option.**

                John left the flat for milk just as the sun was going down. The quick trip to Tesco was just enough time for Sherlock to finish what he needed done. The day had been quite uneventful (blowjob in the morning, breakfast, working on an experiment, snogging instead of eating lunch, solving cold cases) which was only build-up for an eventful evening. John knew Sherlock had planned something (John was not the biggest idiot in London) but it still seemed customary to try to keep events like this secretive.

                As soon as John returned, Sherlock ushered him up the stairs all the way up to the hatch on the roof. He aided John in his climb up before extending out his arm to show the picnic spread. (Thai and a bottle of wine, simple but relevant.)

                “We have to eat fast, before the food gets cold. There isn’t wind, so no additional wind chill, but as you’re well aware it isn’t very warm outside,” Sherlock stated, sitting on one of the cushions he laid out with the spread.

                “Christ.”

                John followed him down, on the cushion opposite.

                “I didn’t do anything for today and you- Thai on the roof.”

                “Eat, John.”

                They ate in relative silence at first, John’s hand squeezing Sherlock’s knee all the while.

                “So it’s been a whole fucking year,” John began, mid-bite. (This habit should have been repelling, but it was endearing.) “I’d say today has been a lot better than then- I didn’t wake up naked and sore on the sofa with someone staring me down from across the living room.”

                “It wasn’t feasible for us both to lie on the sofa while awake.”

                “Then get commanded to make tea before said person huffed off into their room at their refusal to talk. And it wasn’t until two in the bloody afternoon when the wanker realized that I just wanted to ask him out on an actual date that night.”

                “All of which ended with some bad shellfish and some horrible rule about number of dates when I tried to crawl into bed with you.”

                “It was only a fair rule if you expected sex after bad shellfish.”

                Sherlock may have agreed but it didn’t keep him from scowling all the same.

                “This is nice,” John said as he slid off of his cushion and closer to Sherlock. “We’re nice.”

                “Have some wine. It’s going to rain tonight and we likely don’t have much more time.”

                Sherlock poured out two glasses, and they had just finished a silent toast when sure enough, the sky broke open and it began to rain. They shuffled around on the roof, attempting to get everything safely into the flat before it rained too hard. Nonetheless, by the time they arrived in the kitchen, salvaged glasses of wine in hand, they were both soaked to the bone.

                “Christ, I’m cold,” John complained, attempting to curl against Sherlock for warmth, despite his likewise damp state.

                “We’ll have to get out of our clothes earlier than anticipated.”

                “I’m okay with that.”

                John leaned up and kissed Sherlock.

                “Off to your room, then come to mine in whatever you deem appropriate for your plans for the rest of the evening.”

                “Or we could just go to mine and start off cosy-”

                “I still have plans for this evening, John.”

**The article recommends a romantic bedroom makeover. This seems pivotal, as much of the success of an anniversary seems wrapped up in whether or not sex is involved. Nothing too complicated for this, however, as John is a man of simple tastes.**

“I’m fairly certain this many candles constitutes as a fire hazard, Sherlock,” John said almost immediately upon entering the room.

                John had opted to wear lounge pants (just lounge pants), which were beginning to feel uncomfortable already going by the sight of his partner lying in bed in just silk burgundy pants. The candlelight, admittedly, lent an extra romantic air to the room without being overpowering. (At least Sherlock didn’t bring in rose petals.) Besides, Sherlock’s pale skin looked stunning in candlelight.

                “I don’t think you need to be a genius to figure out what the rest of my plans for you tonight entail, but I will tell you just once if you don’t understand by now,”

                “You’re a fucking insufferable git,” John replied as he climbed into the bed.

                “Close-but tonight I think I’d like you to be the one fucking.”

                “We really need to teach you about more subtle innuendo.”

                “You’re going to have sex with me anyway and it got what I wanted out of this particular event out in the open, didn’t it?”

                John replied by kissing him and climbing over so that he was straddling him. They snogged for a few long minutes, enjoying the taste of each other’s mouths (always familiar but always new) and the feel of skin on skin. Sherlock couldn’t resist the temptation for much longer, however, until his hands were down the back of John’s trousers, cupping his arse and forcing him to rock forward. John pretended to be unfazed, and instead moved his attention down Sherlock’s neck, sucking and nibbling as his hands move up to pinch Sherlock’s nipples. This elicited a very throaty baritone groan, and John could feel the presence of the erection trapped beneath him.

                “Since we’re not being subtle tonight- before, during, or after?” John asked, cocking an eyebrow.

                “After,” Sherlock replied, his hands now busy with trying to remove John’s trousers in the most efficient manner.

                John rolled his eyes as he leaned over to root through the bedside drawer, feeling the slide of his last item of clothing as he grabbed what he needed. He laid a series of kisses down starting with Sherlock’s naval until he mouthed the clothed prick. This didn’t last nearly long enough before he pulled the pants off completely and Sherlock opened his thighs, welcoming John to sit between them. John leaned down to place kisses on those beautiful pale thighs before opening the tube of lube. The preparations, which had become less lengthy over time, took longer than usual, as John found himself continuously distracted by some spot that he wanted to kiss; more often than not Sherlock’s lips or a spot behind his ear. Sherlock made it obvious, however, when he had enough gentle caresses by taking a pillow and stuffing it under his own hips.

                John entered him at a tantalizing pace, until Sherlock, growing even more impatient, wrapped his legs tightly around John’s waist and forced his prick the rest of the way in. There were a few moments of nothing but breath, John’s head hanging down and Sherlock looking at him in wide-eyed anticipation. John thrusted as soon as he lifted his head up, starting a slow but rhythmic pace. He pushed against Sherlock’s prostate every few strokes, earning as a reward a tight grip on his arms and a series of sensual groans. After the groans turned into a baritone chant of his name, John’s pace became more erratic and he felt two very skilled hands trailing down his sides towards his arse. His orgasm came, and he lay there for a few moments spent in his partner’s arms.

                “You’re going soft, can’t have that,” he mumbled into Sherlock’s shoulder as his hand wandered down to grab his cock. “At least not yet.”

                John slid down Sherlock’s body to his groin, and took his prick in his mouth. Sure enough, it returned to full hardness after a few bobs of John’s head. Reacting to the sudden sensation, Sherlock reached down to grab at John’s hair, attempting to find purchase in his short strands. John retaliated by using his own hand to knead the coarse black hair of Sherlock’s groin. It didn’t take long to make Sherlock come, and John continued until he had swallowed every drop of his release. He released Sherlock’s mostly soft cock and placed one last kiss on his upper thigh before returning to the top of the bed.

                John debated falling asleep before he felt an arm snaking around his waist and a face against his right shoulder. The room was completely silent for a few moments, save for the persistent nagging in John’s brain that Sherlock was thinking.

                “What are you thinking about?” he asked, kissing the top of the curly head nestled beneath his own.

                “We should get married.”

                John laughed, hesitantly at first, until Sherlock joined him in laughter.

                “What we should get is a shower. I think I have some bubble bath if you’d prefer something more romantic.”

                “Please, nothing romantic. I already have candlewax on at least half the surfaces in my room.”

                “The anniversary is not over.”

                “I intend to spend the next few hours either sleeping, drinking tea, or convincing you to have more sex. None of those activities require me to be romantic.”

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't know for sure if I wanted to continue this series, but apparently the answer is yes.  
> Anyway, I'm working out another part right now, which will hopefully read a lot like the first part of this series. There are some hints as to what problems the boys will be dealing with in that one in this piece.]  
> If anyone is remotely curious the website I used for reference is here: http://ezinearticles.com/?Top-10-Romantic-Anniversary-Ideas&id=846632  
> I, creepily enough, had ideas for all 10 items listed, but stuck with the few that worked best.


End file.
